Missing In Answers
by Kaz Gemcity
Summary: Also a crossoever with Royal Pains. What could possibly be so big it gets MIchael out of Miami? What could possibly be so big that Neal loses the anklet? What could possibly be so big that even Boris doesn't know about it?
1. Chapter 1

The water is warm around his ankles, as he looks into the setting sun.

'Not all that different from Miami." He thinks to himself, turning to the woman standing beside him. She smiles gently at him and it looks odd on her face, like she is more accustomed to flirting with him, or threatening him. He nods to her and she walks away, her hips swaying and the thin skirt she is wearing blowing in the wind.

As soon as he hears her car drive away, he looks to his right and then to his left, as if expecting someone.

Or more than two someones, as the case may be.

* * *

The headphones are pushing onto his ears, and he finds it very uncomfortable, but it is nessassary if you want to talk in a helicopter. Not that he wanted to talk. Annoyed and restless, he yanks the offending object off his head. The younger man next to him looks surprised. As if he is not used to this mans directionless unsettlement.

The chopper lowers suddenly, and the young man gets off with a nod from the other man. Then the flight continues, until they are right over a long, white sand beach, with a single man standing on it.

The man does not look up at the sound of the helicopter, he just stands back and watches. The two men nod to each other and the chopper flies away without hesitation.

The two men standing facing each other, then turn away abruptly, quickly scanning the vague edges of the horizen.

As if they are looking for someone.

* * *

He snaps his phone shut, and rubs his ankle absently, like it is a long accostomed habit. Or like he is missing something that is usually there. Either way he catches himself and forces his body to relax in the standard issue government Ford.

Looking out of the corner of his eye, he nods to the older man driving. This man looks nervous, and he runs his hand through his short dark hair. But still the driver pulls over.

The man gets out, and smiles cheekily, but his lips turn down. He nods to the driver who speeds off.

He walks down the beach, careful not to get the sand in his pricey, Italian leather shoes. He stops at the two men who are already standing there. Then he steps forward and the meeting begins.


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't know if I really wanted to do this. With Hank and Neal standing in front of me, though, the time for choice was now over. The decision was made. Neal was the last to arrive, of course.

"Your late." I said to him. He smiled that smile of his. The one that could make girls faint.

"Your early." He said back, glancing down at a watch that I was sure was real gold.

"How have you been, Neal? I heard you were arrested." Hank asked, speaking for the first time. Neal nodded, his curls bouncing slightly and falling into his face.

"I was. Just not for what you think I did." Neal said, scanning the beach for any danger, almost out of habit.

"So what did you do?" I asked, curious.

"They got me on bond forgery. But I did a hell of a lot of other stuff. Didn't you here, Neal Caffery is one of the best forgers in the world." He told us, smiling.

"What about you, Mike?" Hank asked, seeming ill-at-ease to talk about himself.

"I was burned." I answered shortly, not my favorite subject, I can tell you. Both Neal and Hank looked shocked.

"Why?" Neal finally stuttered out.

"Someone wanted me for a job, and they wanted me out of sight. They had the power to pull those strings. Remind you of anyone?" I asked sharply. The other two nodded.

"Jeff Anderson. Crap." Neal muttered under his breath. Hank closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

"That's the same guy from like Turkey, right? The one with the scar?" Neal asked, and when I nodded it looked as though his worst fears were confirmed.

"The one from Egypt, where you gave him the scar?" Hank asked. And peaked through closed eyes to see me nod again.

"The one that burned both of you." I said, my words ringing true.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, first of all, let me just say, that even though I know Mike wouldn't lie about Jeff Anderson, particularly not to me or Neal, I have trouble believing that he is back. Back like _back. _Back in the worst possible sense of the word for a spy. Or..._ cough_..._ cough_... a burned spy.

To answer your question, yes, I am, um, was a spy. And no, Even doesn't know. Neither does Boris, for that matter, which is odd. He seems to know everything, but I am not complaining.

I am sorry if this seems a little all-over-the-place, but my mind is going in a million different circles, that all repeat back to that one name.

Jeff Anderson.

So easy to say, it almost rolls off your tounge. That is what he said, when he actually told us his real name. We knew him as James. James Carter. Not that we believed that James was his name, even for a minute.

We.

Us.

Me, Mike, and Neal.

It is like going back to your own house after a long vacation, to be with these guys again. They were, for a long time, my team. My family. The only family I knew until I reconnected with Even in New York after I was burned.

Back to Jeff.

He is trouble.

He is trouble with a capital T.

He is powerful trouble that causes problems for American spies because he has the money to do whatever he wants.

And he's good. Like really good.

Again with the scatter-shot thought train. I need to calm down if I am going to do this. Well, I don't really have a choice now, do I?

"I thought Cowan burned us." I pointed out, after less than a minute's pause. Neal shook his head, his blue eyes puzzled, and sharp.

"Name in a file." He hissed and Mike nodded. He hadn't changed, at least not in looks. He was still classic charm. And still wearing the tan suit. I would bet my favorite EKG, that it was Armani. And the sunglasses of course.

What would Michael Westen be without his sunglasses?


	4. Chapter 4

I hate liars. Which may seem odd coming from me, if you have taken a look at my work history. First a spy, then a forger. So really, avoiding telling the truth, and hiding things, and turning people has been my whole life. But I hate it when it is done to me. Not that I think Mike is not telling the truth. I know he is. Just like I know the Philip Cowan is just a name in a file.

I ran my hand through my hair absently, then reached down dusted the white sand off my shoes, and massaged the raw skin on my ankle. Mike and Hank looked down on me, a questioning look in their eyes, previous conversation abandoned for the moment, if only to escape from thoughts of Anderson.

Mike even took off his sunglasses. Michael Westen without his glasses, who would have thought it?

"Are you sure this place is secure?" I asked Mike, standing up and stretching to my full height. He rolled his eyes.

"I think I know what I'm doing, Neal. Yes it's secure." He said relaxed and answering my question even though he didn't particularly like me questioning him. Then again, he never did.

"You should let me look at that." Hank commented, falling onto one knee and pulling up the leg on my pants to get a better look at the red, scarred skin.

"It's fine." I answered, jerking my leg back. But Hank's grip was strong, and I fell backward. My hand reached out to catch the one Mike extended to me. Just like I knew he would. It happened many times before.

"I think you should do as the doctor orders." He commented mildly, pushing down on my shoulder then sitting in the sand beside me. Hank pulls a worn, brown leather bag to his side. I hadn't even noticed that he had it with him. I was getting soft. He pulled out a pair of white, rubber gloves, and began to prod the sore skin.

"It isn't infected." Hank said, pulling off the gloves and stuffing them into a small pocket of his bag.

"Well isn't that wonderful." I nit sarcastically, the pressure of the day getting to me.

"I said it wasn't infected, not that something wasn't wrong." Hank answered calmly, standing up and dusting the sand off his tan shorts. Mike looked out at the water, lost in thought, not even paying attention.

"Of course something is wrong, Hank. The fact that we are here having this conversation means that something is fucking wrong! Anderson is involved, and everything we have worked so hard for since that day has been shot to hell within a couple of minutes. You know we can never go back, right? You both realize that once we deal with this, we can't go back to the lives we were living. Everything is going to change!" I bust out, becoming the man that I so often did when I was around these true friends. A man who wasn't afraid to say what he thought and pointed out the obvious. A man that I disliked very mush, but sadly, the man that I was. He was all I had left.

**_A/N- SOrry about the language in this one. I don't usually talk like that, but it was needed. Thank you for reading._**


	5. Chapter 5

"Hank, I need your help. I want..." The semi-old man called, walking into the sunny, fenced-in courtyard. He stopped short when the man he was glaringly absent.

"Boris." A young, lanky man said, surprised, but quickly recovering himself.

"Even. How nice to see you. Where's Hank?" The older man asked. The younger man looked flustered.

"I don't know. We took a helicopter ride, and he dropped me off. I don't know where he went after that. He seemed kind of in a bad mood." The man shrugged.

"Could I help you with something? Or if it's something medical, I could call Dyvia." He continued. The other man shook his head 'no.'

"None of my helicopters were checked out this morning." He said questioninly.

"I don't actually think it was _your_ helicopter." The lanky man nervously ran a hand through his short, brown hand. The other man looked puzzled too.

"Then where did Hank get a helicopter?" He demanded.

* * *

"Mikey, I need your help. My client..." A older man in an orange, flower patterned shirt, walked into the the metal loft. He didn't seem fazed by the rust on most of the green metal support pipes. Though he did stop short at the sight of a short, thin woman pacing nervously back and forth across the small space.

"Michael's not here, Sam." She said, without looking up. The man wandered to the fridge, and pulled out a beer.

"Where is he? I need help with the small gig..." He trailed off at the daggers the woman was staring at him.

"He's on some beach." She hissed annoyed.

"Well that helps. What beach?" He asked rolling his eyes.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" She snapped, and resumed her pacing.

"Well, didn't you go with him?" He asked and she snorted.

"You could say that. I hid in the trunk until he found me. Then when we got there, he sent me away." She said.

"Why? What's going on, Fi?" The man demanded, putting his drink down on a make-do table.

"I don't know. He's in New York, near the Hamptons." Her eyes were clouding up.

"That's not possible." The man said. She shook her head helplessly.

* * *

"Neal, I need your help. This case..." The middle-aged man with dark hair trailed off, looking around the empty apartment. He turned back toward the door, and nearly collided with a short, bald man.

"Suit. Have you seen Neal?" The short man exclaimed. The other man shook his head.

"I dropped him off at the beach this morning, and I haven't seen him since." The small man threw up his hands.

"Neal doesn't go to the beach, Suit!" He exclaimed, annoyed.

"Why not?" The middle-age man looked genuinely puzzled. The other man shook his head.

"Kate." Was his simple answer. The man nodded, now it made sense.

"So why did he want to go there, Moz?" He asked quietly. The other man's head snapped up and he knew something was very wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

I can't honestly say that I was surprised by Neal's outburst. Ask anyone in the business who has ever worked with him and they will tell you how perfect he is at what he does.

Neal had the amazing talent to become whoever he needs to be in any situation. Whether it be in the spy game or as a con-man. He goes in, does what needs to be done, and walks out as if nothing had happened.

It is a trait that I envy. His ability wear and shed legends like suits. He doesn't even have to try to make anything he says seem like the truth. He could sell flip-flops to an Eskimo. I know, I've seen him do it. But that's another story, entirely.

But on the other hand, Neal was right. Something was wrong, not just with his ankle, as Hank was saying, but with the fact that we are here.

"We should be dead." I say, not meaning to say to out-loud. But something from all those years ago had clicked. Why the mission in that small Massachusetts town was so easy. Why nothing went wrong.

"It was all a set up." I answered, before realizing that neither Hank nor Neal had asked a question.

"Um, Mike. Are you okay, Buddy?" Hank asked, in his doctor voice.

"I think Hank has a point, Mike. What are you talking about?" Neal seconded, dropping his New-Yorker facade and also abandoning his anger.

"I'm fine. But that op in Swansea in 2005. It was all a set-up. And all the pieces have just fallen into place. Including us. I didn't put out the message that we had meet at the safe-spot." Hank and Neal looked shocked at my announcement.

"Neither did I." Neal said. We both turned to Hank expectantly.

"Tell me you did?" I said, my voice bordering on desperate. I fought to keep emotion in check as Henry shook his head 'no.' I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. I opened them with, what I hoped, was determination.

"That means that I was right. Everything, our lives since that mission, have been a set-up. The strings in out lives have been pulled for five years by Anderson. And everything's coming together right about-" I cut off by the sound Humvees approaching over the sand.

As the cars came to a stop, at least a dozen men poured out of the four vehicles.

"Right about now." I finished, nodding to Neal and Hank as we all raised out hands above our heads.


End file.
